Chapter Text
The cartoon movie was playing on the TV, but none of the three potential viewers were actually watching. Yoichi was soundly asleep, curled into Hyouma’s left side, while Michael had clearly been lost in thought for the past ten minutes. Clearly, because usually the kid couldn’t shut up. Hyouma had learned over the past three months of babysitting the two boys that Michael Noa had an opinion about everything — the length and color of Hyouma’s hair, the toppings on the pizza their step/dad had ordered for them, the way his new stepbrother chewed his food. If he wanted Hyouma to understand, he’d say it in nearly perfect English; if not, he spoke in German so rapid Hyouma could only pick out every fourth word, and that was if it was a name.
Hyouma was grateful for the opportunity, he reminded himself whenever frustration threatened to boil over into his actions. He was grateful to have been chosen for this soccer — football, he was in Europe now — camp. He was grateful to work under Noel Noa, one of the most famous coaches of the modern game. He was grateful, and lucky, that Noel Noa had recently married a Japanese woman, and was looking for a babysitter to help his stepson feel less homesick. He was grateful to be here, to be playing football, to be learning German and practicing his English and he reminded himself of his own past, of how much it hurt when his father had left, when it was just his mom and sister. Family cuts ran deep, would fester and boil and scar if you let them.
Hyouma nudged him.
“What’s up?”
Michael bit his lip, worrying at it before looking up at Hyouma. “How do you know who you’re gonna marry?” he ended up asking.
Oh.
Awkward for Hyouma who was 16 to be telling this kid who was 6? 7? about one of the biggest decisions a person could make in their life. Awkward, since Hyouma and Michael both came from families that were a little broken, a lot mended. Awkward, because maybe he should have anticipated it based on the movie playing, in which the prince woke the princess with a kiss and knew, person A saved person B’s life and they knew, in which people went on unrealistic journeys and wound up on the other side both miraculously alive and marvelously in love. There wasn’t anything realistic about it, especially not to a kid who lived through what he’d heard was an ugly divorce.
But he was only six or seven and Hyouma thought that maybe the best thing to do was give him a taste of hope, of optimism, of what could be instead of what actually was.
He sighed, exhaling with a hum.
“Well,” he started. “I don’t think there’s any one way to know. But I think a good place to start is to find someone you really like. Like, the coolest person you’ve ever met, right? And you want to spend all your time with them and they make you feel really happy. That’s the kind of person you could spend the rest of your life with. So you give them a shot, spend more time with them and see how it goes, and it’s easy. That’s the person you marry. If you’re doubting anything, then that’s not them, and you find someone else.”
Michael started chewing on his thumbnail. Hyouma gently pulled it from his mouth.
“And what if you never find that person?” Michael asked.
Hyouma squeezed his hand.
“I don’t think it’s that person. I think it’s a person like that. You’re not looking for ‘the one’, your looking for ‘one of the ones’. And if you think of it like that, that’s a lot more doable, right?”
Michael stared at him blankly, and Hyouma was reminded he was talking to a veritable child.
“You have your whooooollleeee life, 80-something-years, to find them. They’re worth waiting for, too, so don’t worry about it.”
Michael seemed to accept that answer, burrowing under Hyouma’s right arm. He expected to hear a hushed stream of scoffs and laughs but there was only silence. Hyouma looked down.
Michael was fast asleep.
Hyouma thought it was odd that the son of one of the best football coaches wasn’t interested at all in the sport, but he figured that maybe it was best for the kid to avoid the pressure and expectations by preemptively forsaking the sport that, according to Georgina Noa, had destroyed his parents’ marriage.
It came up when Hyouma had shown up to Noa’s house in his kit, practice having run late.
Yoichi toddled up to him, pulling at the soft mesh of his practice pinnie before wrapping his arms around Hyouma’s leg. Hyouma patted his head, chuckling softly as Coach Noa sighed, stepping past the pair to move out of the foyer. Yoichi raised his arms in a silent demand to be picked up, but scrunched his nose upon smelling Hyouma.
“Stinky, right?” Hyouma asked in Japanese. Yoichi giggled and nodded. The kid was cute, he had to admit. He hadn’t been sure about babysitting back when Coach Noa had first asked, but it wasn’t half bad. He mostly put on cartoons in English — which helped his own language skills — reheated whatever dinner had been pre-made for them, and tucked the two boys in to bed. The only problem he’d encountered so far was that Michael could be moody, possessive and jealous and bratty when he thought Hyouma wasn’t paying him enough attention.
Right on schedule, Michael appeared in front of the two. Hyouma smiled down at him even as the small child looked displeased. It wasn’t worth even trying to guess about what, since something new would crop up a minute later.
“Football?” Michael asked.
Hyouma nodded. “Do you play?”
Michael shook his head.
“Do you want to?”
Michael shook his head again but Yoichi started squirming. “Football! Play!” he shouted, running on little legs towards the door to the back yard.
He followed along, laughing. “Well, come sit outside with us at least,” he said, holding a hand out for Michael to take.
A small palm slid against his own as they stepped out into the late afternoon sun.
Michael didn’t play, seemingly content to watch Hyouma and Yoichi pass a ball around, to smirk as Yoichi lost his balance trying to make a big kick and join in the dog pile on Hyouma when he also ‘tripped’.
Afterwards was bath time was for all three of them: a shower followed by sitting in the large tub. Bathing like this was a taste of home in a foreign place, and Hyouma was happy to share it.
“Why do you even like football?” Michael asked, absentmindedly pushing a small mountain of bubbles around the surface of the water.
Hyouma laughed, pulling Yoichi up from where he'd submerged himself in pursuit of a toy car. “Why do I ‘even’ like it? It’s fun!”
“It’s a lot of work.”
“It is, but if you love it, you don’t mind it so much. Because the work makes you better, and that makes it more fun, and then when you’re really good, you get to play with other really good people, and that’s the most fun.”
He handed Yoichi a rubber dinosaur instead.
“Really?”
Hyouma remembered Michael’s small smirk when Yoichi fell over, his victorious shouts when he won at Gran Turismo.
“Well…” he teased. Michael leaned in. “Actually, the most fun is winning.”
Michael’s eyes grew large, awed, light reflecting off the water into his eyes, twisting sapphire blue into a thousand different shades.
“Winning?”
“Yeah,” Hyouma nodded. “Winning.”
The next time he came over, Michael procured a ball from somewhere, cradling it to his chest as soon as Coach Noa closed the door behind him. Yoichi and his mother were back in Japan, spending time with his mother’s family, so it was just the two of them. Hyouma nodded and they headed towards the back yard.
“Where are your boots?” Hyouma asked, eying the trainers precariously tied to Michael’s feet.
“Boots?”
“Boots. Cleats. Ummm…Fußballschuh?”
Michael glanced down. “These are what I have.”
“Your dad didn’t get you a pair?”
He looked away.
“You didn’t tell him,” Hyouma concluded. “Who’s ball is this, then?”
“Yoichi left it behind.” He said it without an ounce of regret.
Hyouma sighed. “You should tell your dad you’re interested in learning how to play. He can get you everything you need.”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“I’m not…Just, don’t — don’t tell him. Please.”
Noel Noa wasn’t a dumb man. He’d see the wear of the grass in the back yard, the extra sweaty, muddy clothes in the laundry. He’d see the football inevitably left by the back door, the extra pair of Fußballschuh in the closet, even if Hyouma bought them for Michael himself. Noel Noa would know his son was playing football — there was no way he wouldn’t.
But Michael Noa was six — Hyouma had confirmed — and wouldn’t understand that kind of logic. Hyouma closed his eyes, gave a dramatic sigh, and planned how to tell his coach to get his son what he needed without letting on that Hyouma had facilitated the whole thing.
“Fiiiine,” he said to Michael, who grinned and dropped the ball on the ground. His eyes grew wide, eyebrows shooting up when the ball bounced to nearly his hips.
“The ball is full of air,” Hyouma explained, kneeling down to retie Michael’s mangled laces. “It makes it much easier to kick around, but it also means it bounces. As you get better, you learn to control it when it does.”
He stood back up and gently kicked the ball to the middle of the open space, walking out as Michael followed.
“But before any of that, let’s teach you how to kick the ball. Don’t kick it with your toe! That’s gonna give you toe pain for nothing, cause you don’t get any real oomph behind it that way. Start off by kicking it with the inside of your foot, which is also how you stop the ball. Like this —”
They spent the remaining daylight hours passing back and forth, chasing down missed balls — though that was mostly Michael — learning how to aim for the makeshift goal Hyouma set up by some bushes that would act as a substitute net.
Hyouma thought he might not be aware of it at all, but Michael was smiling the whole time.
“You’re really fast,” Michael told him as they headed indoors for dinner and a bath.
“I am,” Hyouma confirmed, ruffling his hair as they headed up the stairs. “It’s my special skill.”
“Special skill?”
“Yeah — the thing I’m really good at. Nobody’s as fast as me —”
“Not even my dad?”
“Not even your dad. Nobody’s as fast as me, so when I play football, I try to make plays that take advantage of that.”
“What does ‘take advantage of’ mean?”
Hyouma hummed. “It means…it means that I try to use my speed, my special skill, to be better than my opponents — players on the other team — and to score goals using that skill. Like in that racing game you like, some cars are really fast and some can turn better, right? The good players, like you, will change the way you play the game depending on which car you’re playing with. But I can only ‘drive’ one car when I play football, so I can only play one way.”
Michael looked thoughtful.
“So you just run faster than everyone?”
When it was simplified like that, Hyouma didn’t love how it sounded. But that was the essence of his game, so he agreed. “Exactly.”
“And…do what? Get the balls that other people miss?”
It was a reasonable prediction based on their previous hours of play, during which Hyouma had — mostly — successfully chased down balls Michael had not accurately passed. But it had him laughing all the same.
“No. Well, sometimes, but I’m a striker, so I mostly use my speed to get past defenders and score goals.”
Michael’s brow went up. “Striker?”
“Striker! There are a different positions in football, which all have a different role in playing the game. Lots of different names — you’ll learn them later, if you stick with it — but the players on the team either play defense, offense or a mixture of the two, which is called midfield.”
“And what’s a striker?”
“Offense,” Hyouma answered. “Strikers score goals.”
“And that’s how you win?”
“That’s part of how you win, yeah. Strikers score goals, defenders stop the other team from scoring goals, and midfielders help out with both.”
Michael mulled it over as Hyouma turned on the water, both stepping out of their dirty clothes.
“Do I have a special skill?” Michael asked as they soaked in the tub afterwards.
“Not yet,” Hyouma answered. “But you just started. I’m sure you do, we just don’t know what it is.”
More lip biting.
“Will I be a striker, like you?”
“If you want to be.”
“I want to be fast like you.”
This kid was honestly too much, sometimes.
“Don’t be fast like me. Be you. Be the best footballer Michael Noa can be.”
“What does that mean?”
“We don’t know yet. You have to play more to find out.”
And wasn’t that the truth.
The next time he came over, Michael had boots, socks and shinguards all appropriate for his size, without Hyouma having had to say a thing. Michael didn’t mention it, lips closed as Hyouma helped him lace up his new boots, showing him how the shin guards wrapped around his calves and secured under his socks as they prepared for another afternoon in the backyard.
Yoichi was due home from Japan early next week, so this might be the last time it was just the two of them.
Michael was easier to manage without his step brother, even aside from only having one child to handle. He was calmer when he was only in competition with himself, more inwardly focused and less concerned about how his step-brother was doing in comparison, no matter that Yoichi was younger.
He was easier to reason with, less prone to stubborn fits when he wasn’t trying to prove that he was right. He was less resistant to all of Hyouma’s suggestions, from food to bed time to the story he was told as he fell asleep in Hyouma’s lap.
He smiled a bit bigger, a bit brighter with the one-on-one attention and while Hyouma appreciated the taste of Japan, of home, that Yoichi and his mother provided, Hyouma preemptively mourned the end of his time alone with Michael.
Their last afternoon together was under a sunny blue sky, weather absolutely perfect as Hyouma showed off his moves, oscillating between feeling bad about out-playing a child and the elation of Michael’s wide-eyed praise with every roulette and Maradona he pulled. They ended up in a pile of heaving limbs, laughing as Hyouma’s legs got caught up in one of Michael’s poor attempts at a tackle.
The sun was setting, casting the few clouds overhead in neon orange. Late July seemed almost like a dream, time suspended between Bastard München U20 camp during the day and evenings spent at his Coach’s house. Whatever reluctance he’d had a few months ago was fully resolved by now, the joy of his own immediate, recognizable influence on this kid outweighing any previous hesitation.
Michael’s head was on his stomach as he inhaled deeply. As he exhaled, Michael rolled to face him.
He had a contemplative expression, or whatever counted as such for a six year old.
“What?” Hyouma asked, flicking at his nose.
Michael’s face flashed through a few different emotions as he chewed his lip, hand coming up to bat Hyouma's fingers away.
“You said that I should marry the person the coolest person I knew, someone who made me feel really happy and that I wanted to spend all my time with, right?”
That movie had been a few weeks back, but that had been the essence of what he’d said.
“Yeah.”
“Then I want to marry you!”
Hyouma blinked, then blinked again. At sixteen, he’d never dated, let alone thought about marriage. There were too many moving parts in his life to think that far ahead. And any thoughts he had had certainly didn’t include the precocious six-year-old son of his current coach.
He couldn’t help it — he laughed.
Hurt came across Michael’s face, his mouth puckering and brows furrowing all while his eyes went wide, shining in the dimming light of the backyard.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Hyouma gasped, still trying to stifle his chuckles. “I just…you’re six! Ten years younger than me! You’re gonna grow up and meet someone your own age — when it’s time — and fall in love with them and you won’t even remember me. And I’m gonna be laughing about the time you told me you were gonna marry me, ten years from now — fifteen years from now —”
“No!” Michael protested. “You’re the coolest person I know! The coolest person ever! I want to marry you!”
It was honestly flattering, in a way. Kids were truthful, not prone to lying or exaggeration, so Hyouma knew the praise was real. But then he remembered this was a six year old from a dysfunctional family who had probably not had a legit role model for the past two years — at least, not one he felt he could relate to.
“‘Marry’s a strong word,” Hyouma tried to reason. “‘Marry’ is forever.”
Rather, it should be. But Michael knew first-hand that that wasn't always true, same as Hyouma.
“Yeah,” Michael said. “I wanna spend forever with you, playing football with you —”
“Oh, you want to play football now?”
“If you do, then I do!”
“It’s not easy, to play professionally — to play football as your job. There’s a lot of people who want to and only a few who can.”
Hyouma didn’t even know which group he himself fell into.
“I will!!” Michael asserted. “I’ll play more and find my special skill and be a striker like you and play football! And then we’ll get married cause you’re the coolest person I know and I want to play with you all the time, just like you said.”
It wasn’t just like he’d said but it was close enough and the kid was so young that letting certain things slide and agreeing to other certain things wasn’t the same as if he were older, more aware of what he was saying, never mind that Michael didn't seem to care for Hyouma's opinion on the matter at all.
He played along.
“Fine, yes, if you become a pro footballer —”
“Then we’ll get married!”
Hyouma rolled his eyes but smiled big at the kid.
“Sure, if you become a pro footballer — and only ‘if’ — we’ll get married.”
Hyouma didn’t like making promises he couldn’t keep. He never told people ‘yes’ unless he was certain he could — he didn’t even have a set schedule for calling home to his mother. But there was such a minuscule chance that Michael Noa — who had discovered the joy of football at six years old despite his previously-absolute reluctance to even trying the sport — would both become a professional football player and remember the silly vow made in his backyard on a lovely late July evening spent outdoors that Hyouma felt okay saying yes now.
“You promise?” Michael asked.
"Yes. I promise."
Coach Noa drove him back to the dorms that night, late summer air heavy with humidity and silence.
“I got a call earlier today,” Noa said.
Hyouma took a breath and waited for his coach to continue. The intervening silence felt like an ending, like a beginning. Like something important.
“Manshine City’s youth club is interested in you. Their season starts in a week.”
Part of Hyouma was elated — an elite team? Interested in him? But —
“And Bastard’s youth team?” he asked.
“I…haven’t heard anything from them,” Noa answered.
Noa had explained it to him, and to the rest of the summer camp participants, earlier. The clubs that showed interest were a bit of a crap-shoot. Each had a vision for their team’s gameplay, meaning they had specific types of players in mind. Being chosen by one but not another was not indicative of individual skill, but rather about how a player might fit into a team as a whole.
Didn’t mean it stung any less when the team you wanted most didn’t want you back.
“Man City is good,” Hyouma said after a brief pause.
“Man City is great,” Noa confirmed, nodding. “It’s a fantastic opportunity. You might be signed to their major team within the year if you do well. Which you will. You’re a good player.”
Hyouma nodded absentmindedly. It was a good opportunity, if not the opportunity he’d wanted. And being signed to a major team meant a paycheck. He started preparing a list of things to do, to look into for when he got back to the dorm. Calling his mother, looking into flights. Packing.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. When can I sign?”
Noel and Michael Noa dropped him off at the airport three days later — his flight to England conveniently coincided with Iyo and Yoichi Noa’s arriving flight from Japan.
Michael wrapped his skinny arms around Hyouma’s neck and refused to let go.
“Don’t leave,” he begged, sniffling.
“I have to,” Hyouma explained.
“But why?”
“Because I get to play football this way. And that’s my dream. You want me to follow my dream, right?”
Hyouma felt Michael nod into the crook of his neck.
“Right,” he confirmed. “Just like I want you to follow yours. Whether you play football or not —”
“I’ll play football!” Michael pulled back to meet Hyouma’s eyes. “I’ll be the best you’ve ever seen!”
“Whether you play football or not,” Hyouma continued, “I want you to follow your dream and be happy. Okay? Do what you want and be happy.”
Michael buried his face back into Hyouma’s neck. He felt the transference of wetness and chose not to comment.
“Okay,” Michael mumbled against his shoulder. “But don’t forget, you promised. I’ll become a pro football player and we’ll get married.”
Hyouma chuckled, shaking his head at Noa’s raised eyebrow.
“Sure. You go pro, and we’ll get married.”
The airport departures hall was neither the time nor place to get into the sociopolitical implications of gay marriage between two professional athletes of different nationality, nor could Michael grasp such concepts even if it were, since he was six. But the chances of them running into each other again were low; even lower were the chances of Michael actually going pro.
Not because the kid lacked skill — he had good ball sense and an excellent inherent athleticism for someone his skill level — but because his driving force for playing seemed to be Hyouma himself. The chance that that would persist after Hyouma left seemed low.
Boarding for his flight was called on the overhead PA system, and Hyouma made to disentangle small limbs from around him.
"Promise?"
"I promise."
“Do you pinky promise?” Michael asked as Hyouma stood up. He reached his hand out — his left, apparently unaware that pinky promises were usually done with the dominant hand.
“Pinky promise,” Hyouma answered, hooking his little finger around a littler finger still.
Then he turned, taking a deep breath as he headed towards his gate.
He never saw Michael Noa again.